


is naked

by sketchnurse



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hannibal is a Cannibal, POV Original Character, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-04-01 01:02:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4000012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sketchnurse/pseuds/sketchnurse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lecter finds his prey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	is naked

She is, perhaps, a little bit rude to the girl who runs her toe over with her luggage. She is not the type of person to wonder if there were some reason for her rudeness, circumstances or simply her nature, but if she were, and if she did examine, she would reach the conclusion that today had simply been an ordinary day, no incident, no incitement. But, still. Her toe throbs and her throat scratches just the slightest bit from the way insults had forced their ragged way out. She will be less than comfortable on the public bus.

 

“I notice you are still limping.” There is a man she thinks she might recognize from on the train also taking her route home. There are three other people on the bus and none of them approach the level of this man’s immaculateness, and it makes him stand out, could make him seem wrong. She just sees a man. 

 

Something she notices is the small smile that is his mouth, and another thing is the blanks that are his eyes. She doesn’t remember that those things could matter. It has been so long since she was any kind of academic, years of English forgotten in a slow crawl through motherhood, and she does not often _think._ Even her animal instincts are dulled from years of ignoring the cries of her children.

 

She sits down, thinking to play up the pain in her foot (it throbs, but certainly not enough to make the limp mandatory), and smiles back at him.

 

“Yeah, well, guess that’s what happens to a foot when you get a forty-pound suitcase rolled on top of it.”

 

“Some people, I find, have no sense of manners whatsoever. No sense of what is acceptable behaviour in certain circumstances.”

 

“You can say that again. Can’t imagine she was in so much of a hurry that she couldn’t just look where she was going. It’s gonna be a real pain in my ass if it turns out she sprained it, or worse. I’m on my feet all day, practically a requirement to have both of them working.”

 

“I can imagine. Are you in a lot of pain?”

 

“Oh, yeah. Wouldn’t be surprised if there did end up being some sort of permanent damage. Guess it’s what I get, being out among the unwashed masses.”

 

“I often find myself encountering more than a few unpleasant people in such surroundings.”

 

“What’s a man like you doing on a public bus, anyway? I’d be afraid of getting chewing gum or something worse all over that nice tailored suit.”

 

The man merely smiles at her. What she thinks about is the fading of the sun outside, the strange smell of pickles wafting from the back of the bus.

 

“If you do find yourself with lasting injuries, I could recommend myself as a lawyer.”

 

“Oh, you’re a lawyer? That explains the outfit, I guess. You saying I could sue the train company, or something?”

 

“Or something. In fact, let me give you my contact information. Do not hesitate to call, even just to inquire.” Already in his hand and on the way to hers is his card, white and grey and almost too perfectly designed.

 

“Thank you, Mr. Wyman.”

 

“It is no trouble.”

 

“I can give you my details; I’ve got a business card of my husband’s. He’s a partner in a lumber company; I just stay at home with the kids. ”

 

“And occasionally visit Baltimore?”

 

“Nah, I live here. Just don’t like cars.”

 

“Even better.” She fishes in her purse for the small stack of cards and ends up with a paper cut for her troubles. She places the offending receipt on the empty bus seat between them and continues her search with one finger in her mouth. She despites the taste of blood, but it’s almost habitual, to suck a wound.

 

If she were to pay attention, of any kind, she could possible notice where the man’s eyes had travelled: the small, smeared line of red next to the letters _MBE_. Or, if she had some amount of skill, the way his nostrils flared seconds after she cut herself.

 

“Here you are,” she finally says, a loud and almost indecipherable card advertising Paul Klein of Klein-Taylor Lumber between her middle and pointer fingers. Another thing she does not fathom is why her breath catches when the man reaches over and plucks it from her hands before she has a chance to offer it properly.

 

“Thank you, Mrs. Klein.”

 

“Oh, just Carol will do,”

 

“Carol, then.” She does see him slide it into a wallet already bulging with various cards, but of course this is not unusual. Neither is the quick movement of his head back to face her. “I hope the remainder of your day does not prove to be so unpleasant.”

 

“Yeah, so do I.” She tilts her head, somewhat puzzled. “Is this your stop?” He had sounded like they were saying goodbye.

 

“No. It is, however, yours.” She looks out the window, and does not think how strange it is that he knew.

 

***

 

Two days later there is a fading bruise on one side of her toe and a pile of unpaid bills on the table.

 

“How easy do you think it would be to fake a broken toe?” she asks Paul. He shrugs from his place on the sofa and takes a sip of strawberry wine.

 

“Don’t ask me; Mike’s friend May might know, though, she was into special effects in the school theatre. Can’t be too hard.”

 

“They’d probably ask for x-rays or something. You know how paranoid they are these days.”

 

“Yeah, you’re probably right. You figure you could break your own toe to get a few grand?”

 

She stares at the bills on the counter and does some mental calculation: they have more than enough to cover their costs for the month, but not for the second honeymoon Paul had promised for the spring.

 

“You know, I might just be thinking about it.”

 

 ***

 

“Hello? Is this Mr. Wyman?” She is sitting at the kitchen counter, one painfully wrapped and bound foot resting on the other stool. She picks at her nails, waiting.

 

“Yes, this is Lloyd Wyman. How may I help you?”

 

“This is Carol Klein; we met on the bus a week ago?”

 

“Ah, yes. And how is your foot?”

 

“Ended up with a broken toe, unfortunately.”

 

“You are calling about the possibility of a lawsuit, then?”

 

“It’s been a real pain having to deal with it around the house. I just want to be compensated for all of the trouble it’s putting me through.”

 

“Of course, Mrs. Klein. I will make some inquiries; expect my call tomorrow afternoon.”

 

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.” She taps her nails against the counter and nods at her son, who passes her the bottle of painkillers just beyond her reach. She pops on into her mouth, swallowing it bitter and dry as she hears the nice man say his goodbyes.

 

 ***

 

She doesn’t understand a word he is saying, it all being in legalese, but she nods along and makes noises of agreement when she thinks she should. He asks her a few more questions, about her life, about her family, about her habits.

 

“It’s been a real pain, going to the grocery store.” she tells him, gesturing at her foot. “Can’t get around as fast as I like, and Charlie, he’s my youngest, likes to take advantage. I always go on Thursday nights, though, can’t seem to stop myself. Guess you just come up with habits like that.”

 

He considers her for a few moments, his gaze searching and more intelligent than she properly knows how to deal with. She pretends that she does not feel strange, under such scrutiny, but just like that night on the bus, her stomach drops and she has to catch her breath.

 

“It is possible that I may find out the name of the woman who ran over your foot, and that we may go after her directly. Would you like to explore that route?” She does, but he is almost more than she is asking for. She feels something, like spinning, but possibility pulls her back and she thinks of beaches, hotels, mimosas, escape. But. 

 

His eyes are intense, concentrated; it must be a trick of the light, something, that they appear to be a variation on _red._ Burgundy. Maroon. Garnet. A fine wine, a sluggish venous blood.

 

She glances at her phone, uses an age old excuse, one that is almost true.

 

“Yeah, sounds great. Listen, I have to go. Paul’s out of town for the week and Charlie’s just finishing up his soccer lesson.”

 

“Of course. I will be in touch.”

 

She hopes he will be. She wishes he won’t be.

 

 ***

 

She doesn’t expect to see him next where she does, but he is unmistakable, a strange blemish of perfection in the middle of a muddy, slushy road.

 

“I’m really glad you showed up, out of the blue!” she shouts at him, her hands still arguing with the hood of her car. “The one time Paul’s out of town and I end up wrecking his car…”

 

“I remember you dislike driving.” He stands next to his own car, strange in the shadows the sodium streetlight casts. She can make out his face, just barely, and he seems as blank a canvas as ever. Pristine. Not made for roads in the winter night, his shoes undoubtedly becoming soaked through with sludge. She almost wants to tell him to leave, to go back to places where his perfection is commonplace.

 

That’s silly, though. She needs help, and he is here, and she is grateful, definitely, as she always is when he offers his kind and puzzling words.

 

“Yeah, that’s one way of putting it. Don’t even like to have the kids in the car when I’m behind the wheel; they’re both with a sitter right now.” Her groceries sit in the trunk, and she does not imagine what it would look like after the wait she’s had, all the frozen meals defrosting and leaking water onto the floor, cardboard reduced to mush and her cheap newsprint tabloids bleeding out ink.

 

“What seems to be the problem, Mrs. Klein? Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

 

“Hell if I know. Near as I can tell the car seems to think it’s out of gas, but that can’t be right, I just filled it up this afternoon.”

 

“You may have a leak. May I take a look?”

 

“In your suit? You’ll get grease all over it. No, I’ll just call a mechanic and he can get it sorted out.” Somehow, even though she’s grateful, that someone had stopped, that it had been him… she itches to reach into her purse and pull out her phone, hold it up so he can see, so he can see that he does not need to come any closer to the mess of her car and herself, so cold, so clammy, so hungry. So ruined already.

 

She does not know what would happen if he turned out to belong, to be perfectly in place in the empty, muddy road, after all.

 

“I insist, Mrs. Klein. If it makes you feel better, I will remove my jacket.” He is so polite, more so than she had ever dealt with in the past. He is not like Paul, with his flannel and his mini golf and his love of barbeque. She tries to imagine the man in the shadows eating a rack of ribs, and almost gags at the thought of him covered in sauce, in juices, dripping with the mess of it… it _isn’t_ wrong.

 

“I bet your shirt still costs more than the payment on the car. Really, it’s no problem.”

 

“And I still insist. Mrs. Klein, would you prefer to wait for a mechanic in this weather? Anything I do for you I will do free of charge, as well.”

 

“Alright. You make a good case. You must be a lawyer.” He smiles, a small thing.

 

Smaller still with the yards of distance between them. “I must be.”

 

He steps out of her line of sight, to the back of his car and she stands, waiting, for a few strange minutes and the air is still and unfiltered, cold and in her lungs.

 

When he walks toward her she can see him better in the faint streetlight, and he glints, glistens, glosses. Too much.

 

“What the hell are you wearing? Some kind of protective suit?”

 

“The height of fashion amongst those in my profession, I assure you.”

 

She doesn’t understand. He knows she doesn’t understand, and some of his knowledge, the small parts on his face, she is beginning to see. He has halved the distance between them, shining still more. Suddenly she thinks she smells gasoline, and her foot moves sideways, almost of its own accord, steps into a trail of wetter slush leading to the tank of her husband’s car.

 

He looks back at her, sees where her gaze has been drawn to.

 

“A leak, then. Most unfortunate.” Also suddenly his gait is menacing, entirely too deliberate for a Good Samaritan.

 

She thinks, some part of her knowing that if ever, this road was the place to do so. He had offered her free service for her car; he had offered her free service for her lawsuit. Not charging her a penny, always willing to hear more.

                                                                                          

“I think I’ll call that mechanic.” she says, feet now stepping backward. “I really think I’d rather have a professional deal with it. I’ve imposed on you too much already.

 

“You are not thinking logically. Or, perhaps, too logically at last.” A yard and a half between them, and he is almost blinding in his plastic, though there is still only the faint glow of sodium and the light from his own car. Maybe it is the way the reflections twist as he moves, wrapping his movements in movement.

 

“I’d really prefer you leave, Mr. Wyman.” She thinks, again, thinks of what she has in her purse and what she has in her glove compartment and how far away the shotgun in the trunk is and the taut muscles she can see in his arms, through the plastic, through the fabric.

 

“We are at odds, then. I would really prefer I didn’t.” He is so close now, mere feet, and finally she thinks to back away, but she is doing it slowly, enough for him to follow as he continues on his course. “You are, after all, still in need of aid.”

 

“Don’t think I’ll be getting it from you, though, will I?” He smiles, and not so small now, and his eyes not so subtly wrong.

 

“I am perfectly capable of fixing your car, Mrs. Klein.”

 

“I’m sure you are. Why don’t you have any tools?”

 

“I will not need any. I have my hands. Tools enough for me, I think.”

 

“You’re going to fix my car with your bare hands, is that what you’re telling me?”

 

“Alice Temple is currently in the hospital with her sister.” She balks at the non-sequitur, backed up against the side of her car, and he looms, looms, looms. She only imagines the smell of rot on him, because he is nothing but cologne and air. “After a near-fatal car accident, Marie-Claire Temple was rushed to the emergency room, and spent almost twelve hours in surgery.”

 

“What the hell are you talking about?” He is close to her, so close she imagines a maw opening in his eyes, so she whispers.

 

“An hour before her train was due to arrive in Baltimore, Alice Temple received a phone call from the hospital. Though her sister had survived surgery, she was in critical condition, and had every chance of dying during recovery.”

 

“Why are you telling me this?” She knows. She thinks. He squeaks in his plastic suit, only slightly, as he eliminates more distance between them, but it does not hinder his fluidity, and she breathes, in, out, in and out again and too fast and too slow and she cannot see him, because she does not want to look anymore.

 

It was an unnecessary question. She would not want to see the disappointment on his face, just in case, just in case, just in case it was _that_ , the whole time.

 

“Pressed for time, Alice Temple rushed off the train, fearing that any delay could find her at the hospital after her sister’s passing. At the forefront of her mind was getting to her car, and in her hurry, she ran over your foot with her luggage, Mrs. Klein.”

 

“She broke my toe.” She says the lie like it is truth, like it could possibly… like it would ever have been a reason—

 

Very quickly his face is not next to hers, and by her feet, instead, inspecting, and so casually. A hand far more delicate than a lawyer every needed, than anyone ever needed, lifts the shoe from her foot and she is already cold, already numb, and just the wind on her bare skin is new.

 

“An incident like that would produce, at most, a sprain, Mrs. Klein. The weight of her suitcase would never have been sufficient to break your toe. Your figure of forty pounds was a gross exaggeration, and even then… The injury, with its expected degree, I can still see here.” His finger, long and elegant, runs down the fade of the bruise on her left foot, and it, it is cold, it is different, it _burns._

He looks up, raises his eyebrows, opens his mouth, _smiles._ “On the other hand…” He rips the bindings from her other foot viciously, and deliberately, and she screams. Somehow, her eyes are not yet wet; perhaps it is the dry air, the dry wind, the way she cannot blink enough, not when she could miss something opportunity, reason.

 

“The bone,” He presses two fingers to the break, and, and. “Is shattered, to a degree. Clearly from the impact of concentrated force. A mallet, perhaps, or a hammer. No, no…” His fingers prod, _deep,_ and she thinks of hospitals, dilation, blood and viscera. Sense memory, almost. “There is an almost cylindrical pattern to it. Something pipe-like.  Heavy, but not made for the purpose of striking. I will have to think about it.”

 

“Please,” She feels like she should say it.

 

“You will have to be more specific, Mrs. Klein, if I am to comply with your request.”

 

“Please stop touching me.”

 

“I am in the middle of a diagnosis. I’m afraid I cannot.”

 

“I broke it myself. With… with a tire-iron. I wanted to—”

 

“An interesting idea. You wanted to create the path of a wheel. A commendable effort, I must say. I did not expect such creativity from you.”

 

“It was Paul’s idea.”

 

“Ah. Your husband, then, was in on this?”

 

“He didn’t want to be. Hated the idea of, of hurting me.”

 

“As he should. A husband is his wife’s protection, is he not?”

 

“Yeah.” She continues in her breathing and not looking and she starts to wonder how long she’s been out here, how long her children have been waiting and how long… how long the sitter will wait before she does something about the mother who hasn’t returned.

 

“Alice Temple has an anxiety disorder, Mrs. Klein. Do you know anything about anxiety disorders?”

 

“No. I—no.”

 

“How fortunate that you have this opportunity for education. I am very familiar with anxiety disorders. It is often that I encounter them in my practice.”

 

“You’re, um, you’re not a lawyer?”

 

“No. I am a psychiatrist, and quite highly regarded. And fortunately for Alice Temple, experienced in panic attacks, and other physical manifestations of mental illness. During your wait for the city bus, I helped her regain her breath. Unfortunately, that time she had spent with little oxygen had rendered her incapable of driving herself to the hospital; I instead was forced to arrange an ambulance to deliver her. I hope she did not have to spend long at the triage desk.” He strokes her foot, and tenderly; she thinks of gagging and finds that she cannot, that his fingers are soft and smooth and suddenly warm, welcome.

 

“Are you— I’m sorry about yelling at her, just, please, I didn’t mean to, I won’t—” He does not cut her off when she expects him to. By her feet he is quite still and impeccable, and less of her than ever before will touch him, protected as he is. He does not look at her, but unwraps the bandage completely, and places her foot on slush.

 

“It burns, doesn’t it? The snow. But soon it will be numb, and you won’t feel any pain. Of course, I expect you’re already using painkillers, but I find I prefer more natural methods. Substances can be quite the vice. You’ve been using for two weeks, yes?”

 

“About that.” The bottle is in her pocket and not in her purse and she can feel it, wishes it were emptier.

 

“A more subdued and simple picture of the world around us, is it not? Soft around the edges. I’m sure your screaming children don’t seem so unbearable, especially when you exceed the recommended dose.”

 

“It’s like they’re not real.” Her whisper seems just as insubstantial, and over the break she feels warm breath, and intake, and beneath her she cannot see him close his eyes. And yet, she knows she should not have revealed that to him.

 

“Almost reprehensible, to wish your children away. Perhaps they will be better off without you, when your husband is forced to spend more time with them in your absence.”

 

“Absence.” Her skin is crawling.

 

“It will be an absence, Mrs. Klein. Simply a permanent one.”

 

“I figured. So,” She isn’t steady but the door of the car at her back is, and she pretends. “When are you going to kill me?”

 

“Soon.” He has not moved, but for the rise and fall of his chest that must surely be happening; he continues to breathe over her bare feet, and his breath is not warming them, it is reminding them that they are cold, that it is winter, that ice is formed below freezing temperature and nothing will melt in time for her to feel relief.

 

“Soon, like, tonight? Or do you kidnap women and torture them, keep them in your basement?” Kidnappings mean manhunts, the possibility of escape. Murder means relief. She is unsure.

 

“You are very fortunate, Mrs. Klein; I am not that kind of sadist. I will kill you tonight.”

 

She doesn’t realize she had not been crying until he trails the tip of his tongue along the bloodied arch of her foot. Then, she feels it freezing on her face, over and over as she screams.

 

He lets her wail until it seems he tires of it.

 

“There is no one around, Mrs. Klein. You choose this route because it offers you a view of the lake; an enchanting sight in both sun and moon light. There are three families within a ten mile square. You passed the first, and sound will not travel to the others.”

 

“You’re not worried about other vehicles?”

 

“This is a scenic route. The only reason for a person to drive in this direction would be to reach your town to visit relatives; not a likely situation, at nine o’clock on Thursday. Every one of your neighbours knows to take the road to the south, to avoid the road block where this reaches the main highway; the new bridge is being built. But you fancy yourself romantic, Mrs. Klein, and you drive through the trees and beside the lake to pretend you are not worthless. Right now: can you feel the scratch of your cheap wool against your neck? Does it feel worse, with your tender and raw skin? Or have you grown so used to the scratch that cashmere would feel like nakedness, silk the touch of an unwanted lover? I often regret my understanding of the human mind does not extend to empathy; your pedestrian scrambling for substance you do not know the nature of fascinates me, but I admit I do not _know_ it.”

 

“What do you know?” She is so cold.

 

“The tenderness of a heart, cooked slowly. The sharp, metal flavour of rare meat, freshly caught. How the rabbit screams when it is caught in a trap.”

 

“Why do you have to kill me?”

 

“Do you really think you deserve that heart, Mrs. Klein? Is it better served in your chest, letting you bleat out complaints at your children and suffer through your husband’ bad jokes?”

 

“Better than what?”

 

“I will tell you what I do. I take the organs and I eat them. Sometimes I feed them to my enemies. Sometimes I feed them to my friends. But always they give life, when the life they had been giving is wrong.”

 

She does not ask why he can judge. She can see it in the light that reflects from his eyes.

 

“I should have the Temples over for supper. Then I can give them your apology.”

 

“Can you please do it?”

 

“Ah, kill you? Now? You are begging me?”

 

“It’s so cold.”

 

“Yes, it is. I can feel it myself. Ask me again.”

 

“Please kill me.”

 

“Do you think I like it, when people ask?”

 

“I don’t know. Why would I know?”

 

“You are seeing more of me that most people ever will. What do you think?”

 

“I think you don’t want me to beg, you want to accept that I’m, ugly, or disgusting, or whatever it is.”

 

“Are you worthless, Mrs. Klein?”

 

“No.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“I have two children. I raised them.”

 

“Many people have children. Yours are obese.”

 

“I work so much.”

 

“No, you don’t. You like to browse the web while you delegate tasks to lesser staff.”

 

She stays silent. Something is frozen on the ground, her head pulses and grinds.

 

“You married your husband three months after you met. His family had more money than yours, and you took advantage of this fact to move out of your neighbourhood. There is nothing ugly in this. In America, we try to achieve that which is greater than what we were born into. But you did nothing for him, you took advantage of his stupidity. And you poison the world with your anger and your expectations.”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“You were right, I will kill you, if you know why. Do I need to tell you about the Temples again?”

 

“I already said I didn’t know, and I’m sorry.”

 

“Do you think I like your sobbing?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“But it disgusts me. You cry for yourself, when there is so much else that you should feel sorrow for. Your son, he is having trouble reading. Do you cry about that?”

 

“Didn’t seem to matter that much.”

 

“I assure you, it does. Perhaps Mr. Klein will have better luck with him, with you out of the picture. Do you think he will cry for you? I will make you into artwork, but someone will have to find you. They will all see. I will show them what you are, after I show you.”

 

He rises, so very smoothly, and reaches into a pocket. She watches in absurd fascination as he slides a leather sheath off a scalpel.

 

“You’re like _poetry.”_ she says, her wonderment so close to his face.

 

“Yes.” he replies simply, like he has had so much practice saying the word. His next movement is just as sure, a hand with its scalpel drawn across her throat. Her blood acts just as smoothly, fluidly fluid, almost as though it had been waiting for days in her vessels for its true purpose, to light his eyes with some fire of pleasure. _Integumentary system_ , she thinks, and he is _with_ her, still blank but perhaps, as she finishes her life, a little bit tinted.

 


End file.
